


Ice Before Winter

by JonsaInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Forced Marriage, King's Landing, Post-War, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They should both be dead, but they still stand.<br/>They should be siblings, but they are husband and wife.<br/>They should be wolves, but they are called dragons.<br/>They should never have left Winterfell, but now they call the Red Keep home.<br/>They should rule the North, but instead they are prince and princess of a realm that they never wanted to return to.</p><p>Two Starks ride South and must rely on each other to not follow their ancestors to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Dany

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion upon my "Blood of the North" fic. Expect even more Jonsa, plot, politics, and angsty goodness!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They view each other as siblings, my queen. They will not be pleased."

**Dany**

Her voice was steady as Drogon's flight, but as powerful as his fire. "Leave me."

Daenerys towered above them, despite her short stature, a magnificent and terrifying queen. The small council stood in unison. They recognized her tone, the same one she used to raze cities and burn Masters. Maester Marwyn was the first to head for the door, taking the lead as the one who had born the news that put Queen Daenerys in such a state. Lord Varys and Lady Margaery Tyrell and all the rest filed out as quiet and slow as they dared. 

"Not you, Lord Hand."

Tyrion Lannister stopped his shuffle and pivoted to face the queen. He did not follow the other members of her council, but also did not move from his place, either. Any motion might spark her ire and she was sure he liked his head where it was. 

Once Varys has evacuated the chamber, Tyrion spoke. "Yes, my queen?"

"You will speak to the High Septon immediately upon leaving me." She commanded, the full plan formulating in her mind. Its steps were simple, even as the process was not. "You will explain that your wedding to Sansa Stark was a marriage in name only, wholly unconsummated, and will ask him to annul the union. If he questions this, tell him it is my express desire that he fulfill your request."

"Why, Your Majesty?" Tyrion stepped towards the table. "And what if my wife would like to continue our state of matrimony?"

"If she wished that, Lady Stark would sign her correspondence as Lady Lannister, and she would be here or at Casterly Rock, not in the North." Daenerys scoffed, a smirk planning on her lips. "I will arrange for a suitable bride to be the new Lady Lannister, fear not."

"Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, it is quite strange that your first consideration upon this news is to worry over my marital state." Tyrion sighed and sat back into his specially designed chair. Small steps lead up to the top so that the Hand need not make an undignified lift into his place at her table.

Daenerys looked down at him with her darkened purple eyes. "It is not your status that I ponder upon, but that of Lady Stark. She will be free to become Princess of the Realm without her ties to your House."

Tyrion's eyes widened in disbelief. He paused a moment, as if waiting for her to continue. Finally, he gave in. "You mean to marry her to your nephew."

"To continue my line, to end the curse upon this house, I must. Catelyn Tully proved to be quite fertile, and I am told her daughter is identical to her likeness, but perhaps more beautiful. Sansa Stark has familial ties to the Riverlands, the North, and the Eyrie, and great friendship with the Stormlands. She is perhaps the most influential woman in my kingdoms other than myself. If I tie her to the crown, I tie them all to my crown." Daenerys explained, her eyes fixed in the dark, hollow gaze that has captured them often since their battle beyond the Wall.

She has long dreamed of the day Jacaerys, tall and dark and brooding but entirely Targaryen, would finally come to King's Landing to wed her. Her nephew was handsome and experienced, a warrior and leader whose followers fought for and followed with pure devotion. She had offered him the throne when they first met, but he insisted on going North to help rebuild his mother's family's home. Jacaerys would have been a wonderful King, but she could not give him heirs. 

Several maesters had all confirmed that Daenerys was barren and would be until the end of her days. Miri Maz Duur had left her brand upon Dany. The tragedy was there forever, seeped into her skin and soul, but it did not mean that her House must die out, not after all she had fought for. 

"They view each other as siblings, my queen." Tyrion's voice held a certain edge to it, one she could comprehend but did not care for. "They will not be pleased."

"I do not care whether they will be pleased. It is past time Jaecerys comes home." She breathed heavily and braced her hands against the table. "And as for the other matter, it is all the more Targaryen of them. It was the obligation of the eldest son to marry the eldest daughter for generations before the Age of Aegon."

Silence. And then, he spoke. "As you wish."

Tyrion shuffled from the room in that way of his, leaving the queen utterly alone. The chamber was as her heart felt- empty. Finally, she let the tears fill her purple eyes and spill onto her cheeks and the table. 

For so long she had dreamed of marrying her nephew, of having a family again, someone who was hers. Aegon had two sisters, as she had two brothers, but they were both now dead and gone. Dany's gut tightened and the tears came faster. Jacaerys was hers by right and birth, because they were both Targaryens, because they were of the same blood, because he was all she had left. Yet he was being stolen from her like Rhaegar was stolen from Elia Martell, by some Northern girl who could bear his children. Even if willingly given, he was still someone she craved and needed, someone who belonged with her like the sea belongs to the shore.

Her visions of little white-haired and purple-eyed children named Rhaegar and Aegon and Rhaella and Visenya were gone. Those children would belong to Sansa Stark now; they would be hers to name for her Northern ancestors if she so wished. They would have long faces or red hair, Stark or Tully with perhaps a little of the blood of Old Valyria; grey eyes or blue, it made no difference. There would be little fire left in their blood.

A mounting anger burnt within, great and terrible. Sansa would share a bed with her lord husband, bear her children, mother her heirs. Daenerys needed Sansa Stark's womb, but she wanted no wolves. The Northern wench best know her place, she thought, wiping the tears from her cheeks, or there will be fire and blood to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're liking it so far! Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


	2. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are called back to the kingdom by her wiles. I thought I was free. We should be dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how much people care about this, but just so we're clear:  
> The Long Night came at the beginning of 301, and ended halfway through 302. This is set in 305.  
> Character ages:  
> Tyrion - 32  
> Daenerys - 21  
> Jon - 22  
> Sansa - 19  
> Arya - 16  
> Bran - 15  
> Rickon - 10  
> Margaery Lannister - 22

**Jon**

Sansa's graceful movements captured the attention of every eye in the room, his own most of all. She noticed naught as Lord Manderly guided her across the dance floor. A singer’s voice lilted across Winterfell’s Great Hall, joining his harp to guide the dancers. Jon had sent South for one, specially for Sansa. She had come to love her songs again, against all odds, and reigned as champion of the dance. Each breathtaking swirl of her skirts brought a smile to his face.

She was as talented on the dance floor as she was in court, organizing her partners in a similar way to how she organized Winterfell. She was a proper lady, part courtier and part diplomat, part entertainer to their guests and part mother to her younger siblings. Jon tried not to linger on her too long, but the bright trail of her hair in all the dark Northern raiment was difficult to draw his eyes away from.

As the music came to its close, Sansa curtsied to their advisor. She looked over her shoulder and caught Jon’s gaze, her beam bright and her expression excited. As the next chords were struck, she began a poised dance around the other inhabitants of the hall, gradually making her way back to the high table and her place besides him.      

It had not escaped Jon’s mind that Sansa always sat in her lady mother’s former place, even when he had been King in the North. Not even now that she ruled as Lady Regent of Winterfell, and should rightfully take his seat, the seat Ned and Robb both took at one point. But Sansa always went straight for her lady mother’s seat, even on occasions like tonight when there was a different man of the castle set to join them. Her skirts brushed his hands as she settled next to him, although he quickly pushed them off the sides of his chair.

“That was lively.” He remarked, reaching for the pitcher of mead. He poured some into Sansa’s cup. She was always thirsty after long turns on the floor.

"Thank you." She laughed as she accepted the tankard, and took a large sip. The great white  direwolf at Jon’s feet thumped his tail as she pet between his ears. “And yes, it was. Lord Manderly is an excellent partner.”

She leaned back in her seat, but her back still sat straight. Her shoulders slouched ever-so-slightly, and a calm settled over her face. “Although truly, I am ready to retire.”

“You can’t leave me alone. Arya already bailed to train with the lords’ squires.” Jon mostly jested, but the feast required a Stark presence. Arya preferred to maintain the arms and prance with the young squires. Sansa no longer tried to encourage Arya to pursue womanly tasks. Instead, the focus was on making her a leader and an honorable warrior. Bran spent most of his time beneath the trees, and Rickon was sent to bed long before the dancing begun, leaving Sansa and Jon to fill the roles of Lord and Lady.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I’m tired.”

Jon turned his head to respond, but he noticed the movement in the corner of his eyes. Little Sam, Gilly and Sam’s eldest, stood with his wide eyes on the pair. His brother Aemon, in truth the son of Mance Rayder, waited behind him. Jon beckoned the boys forward.

“What is it?” He asked, ruffling Aemon’s hair. Aemon was named for the great-uncle Jon never had the chance to recognize as his family; he was glad part of the old man was passed on to this child.

“My lord, my father requires your presence immediately.” Little Sam’s words were a mumbled rush as they poured out. Something seemed amiss.

He rose. Aemon grabbed his arm and spoke,“Also the Lady Sansa.”

She looked up from her cup, startled to be included. Normally when Lords wrote with urgent correspondence, it only required Jon’s response as Warden in the North. 

“My lady.” He offered Sansa his arm, trying to ignore the comfort brought on by the pressure of her hand. They followed the boys to the Tarly family’s quarters in the Library Tower. Ghost plodded after, but did not follow them into the building. Winds bit against their cheeks as they walked up the winding staircase, finally reaching Sam’s study.

The maester sat by the fire, a raven on the stand next to his chair. Sam twiddled with a letter, and met Jon with an anxious stare.

“Jon, My Lady, we’ve had a missive from the capitol, you see…” Sam’s eyes landed on Sansa. He has mastered his own nervousness much in the last few years, and was perfectly controlled around the Starks. “I think it best if you just read it.”

He rose and handed out the letter. Jon unraveled the parchment, and read it quickly. 

_Prince Jacaerys,_

_It is time you return to your duties as prince of this realm and as my heir. Winterfell can survive without you. Bring your cousin, Lady Sansa. I have made the necessary arrangements with her former husband and the High Septon. Come South, as Jacaerys and Sansa Targaryen, or I will come to you._

_Queen Daenerys Targaryen_

He reread the letter three times before he fully grasped it. Her tone demanded that he comply; he knew Daenerys meant her veiled threats. All irritation at her instance on using his Targaryen name is ignored in the fervor of his rage. “She can’t mean-”

“She does, Jon.” Sam’s eyes fell to the ground.

“What does she want now? More taxes? More men? We’re strapped as it is. Even tonight was too much.” Sansa said, annoyance evident in the furrow of her brow.

Jon looked at her, took in the aggravation on her face. Even upset, she is beautiful. His eyes found the ground, his face forming a shamed frown at his thoughts.

“It’s best you read it.” He handed the letter to his cousin. He watched as her face fell, contorting in a pained expression. By the gods, he wanted her, but not like this, not away from their home and family, away in some one else’s court and castle.

This raven changes everything, Jon thought. Although he would not have chosen to have this way, a small part of him is glad that he will have her at all.

“She wants us to leave Arya and Bran and Rickon.”

Jon was surprised this is what she focused on. She looked up, tears forming in her eyes. “Jon.”

As she said his name, his heart broke just a little. He glanced to the side, but the Tarlys had both disappeared. They were alone. Jon did the only thing he knew how to in that moment.

He took two steps to close the distance between them, and pulled her in. Jon held her tighter than he ever has, tucked in against his chest, his arms and hands locked into the small of her back, his head burrowed against her neck. Sansa’s arms are just as tight behind his neck, and she broke.

Her body shook, wracked with the force of her sobs. “I can’t go back, Jon. I can’t.”

He rocked her for all he was worth, pressing his face against her neck. She spoke about it, sometimes, the pain and torment that afflicted her in the capitol. Joffrey Baratheon’s abuse, Margaery Tyrell’s betrayal, her marriage to Tyrion Lannister.

“We can go to Dragonstone, perhaps. It is the crown prince’s seat, traditionally.” He tried to reassure her, but his words make no difference.

“Until we are called back to the kingdom by her wiles. I thought I was free.” Sansa crumbled then, leaning against his chest. “We should be dead.”

“No, Sansa. Don’t ever say that.” He pulled back and looked deep into her eyes. He wanted her, but not like this. He wanted her to love him willingly, to trust him, care for him, but on her own terms, not the queen’s. He wanted her to choose him.

Jon caressed her face in his hands and brushed the tears from her cheeks. Still more well within her glimmering blue eyes.

They have both suffered abuse and faced loss, lead men and lost them, fought wars and fought the dead, seen into the iciest eyes and stopped believing in the songs. Yet somehow, they have recovered. In her gaze, he found the songs again. Beneath her gentle touch, he found something else to believe in. Finally he can live again. Daenerys will tear that all away to secure her throne. 

He flew by her side as a dragon rider, felt the fire that burnt in his veins, but Jon wanted none of that to continue. He liked the calm coolness of ice better than the passionate heat of flame, but once more would he delve into the hearth to protect the ones he loved.

“Arya and Bran and Rickon will be safe. We may not always be together, but we will know they are cared for. We’ll have that.” His voice softened as she reached up to hold his hand against her face. “And we’ll have each other.”

“She wants you.” Sansa whispered, and gripped his fingers forcefully. “I saw the way she looked at you, in the battle and after it.”

“I won’t dishonor you, I swear it before the old gods and the new.” Jon tucked a loose strand behind her ear, and stroked her hair, soft against his fingertips. “And if you don’t want me, I won’t have you. Not even if she commands it by my death.”

“Jon-“ Sansa’s voice is weak. “We’re about to enter their world, and they’re merciless.”

“I’ll be there, Sansa. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Never again.”

Sometimes Jon thought the only reason he rose again was so he could gaze into Sansa’s eyes, so bright and blue when she stared up at him like she does then. These sinful thoughts filled his head, even before Bran discovered his true parentage. Even now, when Arya still calls him ‘brother,’ all he dreams of is the taste of Sansa’s lips against his own. 

“After everything we’ve been through…” she said, her voice soft and quiet as her needle through her cloth. “My lord husband.” She spoke as if testing the words on her mouth. She intertwines their hands and finally brings it way from her face, but they stay joined. “We’ll still be together.”

“Together.” He repeated. It is an assurance, a prayer.

Sansa sighed and buried her head against his neck. Her face is soft and comforting there. No more tears escaped her eyes, although sadness was still evident in her quiet breathing. He knew that even the seven hells together could not bring the pain to Sansa that their relocation to King’s Landing will. Nothing could ever trump the memories and nightmares that invade every inch of the Red Keep. He must give her all the love he can, to hold her stable in the snake pit they are about to enter.

He nuzzled his chin against her hair, and whispered so only she can hear, “Always. I promise.”

Snasa nods. “We will leave within the fortnight. I want to be there when we tell them on the morrow."

 

* * *

 

Their siblings did not take their betrothal kindly. Arya threw her plate across Sansa’s solar where they broke their fast, and exited in a brilliant flurry of curses that Sansa would normally have reprimanded her for. But that day she had no energy, and only closed her eyes at her sister’s understandable frustration.

Bran nodded in that placid way of his, as if he already knew. He refused to tell them what the future held ever, and Jon wouldn’t be surprised if he had seen their summons South in the trees. 

Rickon did not understand exactly why they must leave. Fortunately, he trusted Lord Manderly and would listen to the new Lord Regent’s advise. Bran had forsaken his role as Lord of Winterfell, claiming he had a destiny that did not align with ruling a keep and watching over his people, and since he couldn’t have heirs anyway, Rickon may as well learn to rule. When Rickon came of age, he would take up Ned Stark’s mantle. Upon their arrival in King’s Landing, Jon would petition his aunt to make Lord Manderly the Warden in the North until such time as Rickon reached his majority.

The days that followed brought hectic commotion to Winterfell as the guard was prepared for their journey and few ladies chose to join her retinue. The South was not a happy place for the blood of the North. 

Jeyne Poole was brave enough to volunteer, even though her last excursion to King’s Landing brought her so much pain. And of course Lady Brienne of Tarth, Sansa’s sworn shield, would come with them. Brienne would gladly follow Sansa to the Summer Islands if she so asked, glad to do her duty and fulfill her vows to Lady Catelyn.

Sansa sewed at all times, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. In council meetings, at meals, in her solar, as she instructed Wylla Manderly on the finer points of running the keep- there was always an embroidery hoop in her hands.

They had not spoken alone since they received the letter, both too busy preparing to leave their home. Yet Jon noticed that articles of his clothing would disappear from his packed trunk and reappear on his bed, with new embellishments of wolves and snowflakes and winter roses. Sansa was ready to rebel in a way only she could, and their clothing screamed her message: they might be dragons in the South, but their hearts still belonged to the North and the snow and the Starks.

He was startled from his ledgers late the night before their departure by a knock on his door. He answered it, surprised to find Sansa standing before him.

She wore a light grey dress, a direwolf spring across her chest. Her hair is pinned back in a simple Northern braid, with silver combs as trimming.

“I have a strange request.” She said. Sansa’s eyes fixed upon his. “Would you marry me tonight, in the godswood? I… I’d like to have it here, with our family, before we become players once again.”

Jon, although startled, instantly complied. “Of course.”

She handed him a grey cloak, decorated with the inverted sigil of their house. He never chose to use his birth father’s colors. Across her shoulders hung a simple white cloak with the outline of a direwolf embroidered in grey. He could tell the embroidery was done hastily, even though it was exquisite. Sansa’s pieces normally used more detail than this

Jon followed Sansa to the godswood, his heart hammering in his chest. This is not how he wanted it, but yet this is everything he has wanted for years. A wife awaited him beneath the hearttree, he realized, and swallowed. This was not a future he had ever thought to truly see. As if in some strange dream, he left her at the godswood’s edge and joined Arya and Bran before the tree.

It was just their family as Rickon escorted her towards where Jon stood at the foot of the heart tree. No decorations hung around the godswood for this hasty ceremony. Ghost stood besides Jon, quiet as his namesake. The words were said, his voice shaking as he called himself Jon of House Targaryen. “I claim her. Who gives her?”

Rickon stumbled through the words, finishing traditionally, “Lady Sansa will you take this man?”

A thrill rushed through Jon as Sansa nodded. “I take this man.”

The bride was given over and then he was fumbling with the knot of her cloak and setting his own over her shoulders. With that, Sansa was his and Jon was hers, bride and groom, wife and husband.

Sansa’s cheeks reddened as a summer snow crowned her brow. Jon looked down into her shining bright blue eyes, and placed a chaste kiss upon her lips. He would nearly swear she leaned into his touch, but Jon was sure he imagined it. It took severe restraint to not attempt anything further with his wife, but he would never go anywhere that she would not invite him. 

He escorted her back to her chambers once their-her siblings dispersed. She blushed prettily as she pressed a hand against the door. “Would you- would you like to come in?”

“There’s no need now. We have an early start tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded. “Aye.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” He said after an awkward silence.

“For what?”

“For thinking of the godswood. It felt truer and good, to seal our fate before our own family and our own gods. In the South, it will be a sept for us, but truly the sept is for them.” He embraced Sansa, and hope she could understand his deep appreciation of the woman she was. His lips brushed against her forehead, but then he pulled back to look into her eyes.

She opened her door fully, and stepped back as Ghost pushed his way into her chambers. Sansa laughed nervously. 

“He’ll protect you.” Jon suggested, and ran a hand over his hair. Sansa laughed again, more naturally this time. 

She looked at him, her lips parting as if she were about to speak. She bit her lip. “Good night, my lord husband.”

“Good night, my lady wife.” The door swung shut behind her, but Jon continued to stare after Sansa. Her name was truly beautiful, just as the woman herself. A few moments later and Jon left, back to his own quarters for the remainder of the night.

 

* * *

 

There were tears and embraces aplenty the next morn before they left Winterfell. Sam and Gilly, clutching young Faya to her breast, come to say goodbye. The Stark siblings did not say the truth of their hearts, although they felt the pain of their separation, but none knew when they will next see the leaving couple. Rickon was the most distraught, holding on tightly to Sansa's arm.

"Don't go, please." He begged, his large eyes focused entirely on her. “Don’t leave me again.”

Jon's heart went out to Rickon, who had already lost so much and now had to lose so much more. It went out to all of them, thrust apart as they never wanted to be, all because of the blood in Jon’s veins that he would rather not have.

Sansa knelt before the little lord, her face serious as she cupped his own in her hands. "Promise you'll be good for Lord Manderly, and I'll write to you every week, I swear it."

Rickon answered through muffled sobs, and Sansa pressed a kiss to her brother’s brow. She squeezed his hand one last time before rising from the ground. Arya surprised them all by throwing her arms round Sansa and pressing her face into her sister’s neck. “Write me too.”

Their relationship had never truly reached the closeness he knew Sansa wished for, but they were sisters and friends all the same. Sansa wrapped up Arya in her embrace. “I’ll miss you, sweet one. Don’t let the squires best you, but mind that you keep the dirt from your hair when you have to make an appearance at formal events.”

Arya nodded, tears peeking in the corner of her eyes. She wiped them out with the back of her hand before crushing Jon tightly into her body. “Don’t you dare let anyone hurt her, Snow. Prince or not, I’ll hurt you twice as bad myself.”

“I won’t, little sister.” He ruffled her short hair one last time before they separated. 

Bran nodded at both of them, squeezed their hands, and whispered his partings. “Fair fortune, family. Gods be good to you.”

Shaggy, Summer, and Nymeria nuzzled against Ghost, letting their whines ring out. He did not want to part the litter, but Ghost would not go with anyone else but him. With a start, he realized he would soon see his dragon once again. The fond bonds between them were not as strong as the bonds Viserion shared with his siblings and so the dragon stayed with Daenerys in King’s Landing’s dragonpit. 

Jon helped Sansa up onto her horse, hands tight on her waist until she was settled fully. Sansa graced him with a small smile of thanks before he mounted his own ride.

They rode through the gate like a downtrodden and defeated army, Ghost plodding along after them. Sansa led the way, the first Stark to return to Winterfell now becoming the first to leave it again. He trotted ahead to ride aside her. Jon reached out and grasped Sansa's hand tightly, ready to face a future with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, to clarify things: Danaerys is based more on show!Dany than on book!Dany (who I respect as a character so much more than show!Dany), but most of the rest is book based, except for lack of Aegon.
> 
> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


	3. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me play for both of us, until you learn the rules yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to apologize for how long this took to write. I was a little disappointed with how Chapter One rolled out. While I was super excited to post, I ended up forgetting a few details and not having a solid enough plot to begin the foundation. I’ve made a few additions/edits, none of which entirely require a re-read, but feel free to if you’d like.  
> The big things:  
> -Changed Margaery’s last name to Tyrell in the prologue. She was accidentally listed as Lannister.  
> -Sansa doesn’t have familial ties to the Stormlands as I mentioned. Changed to “great friendship.”  
> -Added in Ghost to Chapter One, and a mention of Viserion, who Jon rode in the war.  
> -Also a few more mentions of the War of the Dawn.  
> -Expanded the godswood wedding a little bit, as well as the conversation after. Mostly fluff, but fun fluff.  
> -Explained Bran’s abdication (he thinks his duty as the three-eyed raven doesn’t leave him enough time to be a good lord, can’t have heirs)  
> -Brienne is going to King’s Landing with them. She serves as Sansa’s sworn shield.  
> -Expanded the closing. 
> 
> Alright that’s about it. Hope you enjoy Chapter Two :)

**Sansa**

The horse whinnied as Sansa dismounted from its back after a long day on the Kingsroad. Dust clouded around her feet as she landed. A page boy from the inn came to take her mount away to be brushed, watered, and fed but before he left Sansa turned to pat the side of the mare’s brown neck and feed her a sugar cube.

“You indulge her.” Jon laughed from behind. Sansa turned to engage him. Jon’s eyes twinkled with mirth in the fading sunlight. He offered his arm before they went inside. 

“She’s been calm on this journey.” Sansa responded as she set her hand against his bicep. “She deserves a treat.”

He escorted her from the stable to the inn in a comforting silence. After climbing the inn’s steps, Jon paused before what Sansa assumed to be her own door. “I asked the innkeeper’s wife to draw you a bath. It’s been many days since the last keep. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sansa had thought about asking for one, but had not wanted to seem petty. She set her hand on his cheek, hoping the action was not too intimate. “I don’t, not at all. Thank you, Jon.” 

Inside her room, she found a steaming bath besides the hearth fire. Her traveling trunk had already been brought up, and Jeyne Poole waited besides the bed. She helped Sansa out of her dress and into the bath, before laying out a dress for dinner. Sansa closed her eyes in the water, letting days of dirt and dust fall of her skin. She submerged her head beneath the warm water and began to brush out her hair to an auburn sheen. 

A dress laid on the bed, light grey wool with winter roses embroidered into the bodice by her own hand. Sansa slipped into the gown, and Jeyne laced up the back of her bodice. The other woman had not been the same since her rescue from Winterfell. Scar tissue covered her nose from where the Northern frostbite took it. She was often silent in action and thought, no longer prone to the youthful whispering and tittering of their younger years. 

“Sansa,” Jeyne said, holding out a shawl of green, “are you scared, of the return to King’s Landing?”

Sansa draped the shawl across her shoulders. She took Jayne’s hands in her own and clasped them tightly. “I’m petrified. But we go with our own allies now. I’m no longer someone else’s pawn, and I won’t let them take you away again. Jon won’t let them hurt us. He’s heir to the throne, and my children will rule after the Dragon Queen. There is nothing to fear that we cannot combat in our own way.”

Jeyne nodded, but Sansa could see the doubt in her eyes. It was no scared thing, to return to the city where her pain had begun. Sansa knew, though, that Winterfell held terrible memories for her friend just as the capitol held for her. She pulled Jeyne into an embrace. “If you ever are unsure, just say the word and I will see you escorted safely back to Winterfell.”

They made their way to dinner then. Lord Giantsbane, Lady Brienne, Satin, and Jon all sat at the table already. Sansa took her place to Jon’s left, directly across from the wildling lord. Jon smiled at her before taking a leg of chicken onto his plate. With that, their meal had begun.

She observed Jon, as she always did. It was still strange, to think of him as her husband now. Sansa was sure the oddity of it would last for quite some time, yet she hoped that they could come to care for each other and trust one another as husband and wife eventually. They ran the keep at Winterfell together, overseeing Rickon and Bran’s lessons and keeping Arya out of trouble. She was sure that running a household in King’s Landing would not be so different. 

As a child, dreams of her future always contained a political marriage- it was what was expected of her, after all. But she had always envisions marrying a hero from the songs, a knight or lord from the South who could sing, who knew his courtesies, who always won tourneys in her honor, and loved her with all his heart. Someone good and honorable and true and brave and kind.

Her lord husband was all these things, she knew, but in a quieter manner than most. Jon cared for the people they oversaw and listened to their qualms. She had seen the way he fought through the Long Night. He rode Viserion above their keep and decimated the armies of the undead at their gates. In Winterfell, he slaughtered wights and when the battle was done still found energy to see to his men. Jon had fallen while carrying a wildling warrior to the Great Hall, only then admitting he was severely wounded. She had worried that, after all the Starks had been through, they would lose Jon then, yet he fought through his fever and aches to rise once again.

 Sansa was glad to have Jon as her husband. If she must marry at Daenerys’ command, at least it  was to someone who understood her and the ways of the North, someone she knew would not hurt her or use her as so many others had done. Petyr Baelish had tried to manipulate her at every turn, but Brienne of Tarth’s arrival in the Vale had kept her protected from his groping hands. Her marriage to Harrold Hardyng secured her freedom from Baelish when Harry slew him for his treason against Sweetrobin. 

That marriage, while consummated, had been declared false by Queen Daenerys when she landed with Tyrion Lannister as her Lord Hand. Sansa was somewhat glad of it, for it meant she could return home to Winterfell so long as Tyrion never summoned her. Last she had heard, Tyrion was too busy as Hand of the Queen and Harry had married Myranda Royce and served as his cousin’s principle advisor. 

She took another glance at Jon, deep in conversation with his steward from the Night’s Watch. Many of his former comrades came to Winterfell to serve their Lord Commander and rebuild the North, once dawn had come again. Satin stayed in his service even now, coming south to serve him there. They respected his leadership and followed his commands, for he had seen them through many a battle. Yet, she feared for his role in King’s Landing. He was a brilliant lord and fierce warrior, a man of many skills, but politics was not one of them. Handling a court was not like planning a siege or commanding legions. That worry could be fixed later, though, when they were settled in Maegor’s Holdfast and this journey done.

Once supper was finished, their party retired to their rooms or tents. Jeyne snuggled beneath the blankets on their bed, and Brienne took her place on the cot besides the hearth, but fatigue had yet to claim Sansa.

She took her maiden’s cloak before crossing the hall to Jon’s chamber. He was settled before the fire in an oversized chair, alone but for the ringing of Longclaw’s steel as he sharpened the sword.  Jon looked up as she entered, calm grey eyes alight. She took the seat besides him quietly, wielding her needle and thread through the thick white wool to continue her designs. Previously, she traced prancing wolves and towering giants, winter roses and sparkling snowflakes, and other Northern symbols along the sides, but now her focus turned to the images of her family on the furthest edge of the cloak.

Ghost’s tail swished contently at her feet. He had tried to follow after her at the first keep they stopped at, but the great direwolf terrified Jeyne, reminding her too much of her former husband, so Sansa had taken him back to his true bonded partner.

“We have perhaps another three weeks on the kingsroad.” Jon said, eyes on her work. Their party was small, mostly horses with three wagons, but the roads were still dangerous and the spring snows north of the Neck had slowed their progress. 

She sighed. “And so it begins.”

“Aye.” He did not have much to say after that, but Sansa knew the conversation they had to have. She reached across the space between their chairs and took his hand. Jon startled, blinking at her soft hand on his own, but relaxed into Sansa’s touch after a moment.

“I know we did not want this, Jon. I just wanted to be safe and home.” Sansa squeezed his hand. “But we are about to enter the great game. There are players at every turn, courtiers who will want to tear us apart for their own gain or even their own enjoyment. It’s a brutal place, not a fate I’d wish upon anyone.”

Jon nodded. 

He was a commander of great ability, a warrior of amazing strength, a lord of unyielding honor, but Jon was no politician. Sansa feared for him, in King’s Landing. He led his troops fearlessly against their frozen enemy, ruled the North graciously, and slaughtered wights and Others with incredibly agility. King’s Landing meant a return to politics and diplomacy, the game of power and lies, the fight for control of the throne.  Her worries from earlier flooded to her mind then. 

Sansa needed him to understand the different world they were about to plunge into. She did not want to be a part of the political intrigues of King’s Landing anymore than Jon did. But if they were to survive in the Red Keep, she knew they must, and that Jon was not prepared for what awaited them.

“I need you to trust me, Jon.” Sansa squeezed his hand a second time, but kept her grip tight and refused to let go. “I’ve played their tune before, I know how the court’s mind works. Southerners are a different stock than the Northern lords, and I need you to listen to me when it comes time. _Please_.”

She pleaded at him, her eyes intent on his face. Jon covered her hand with his free one. “Let me play for both of us, until you learn the rules yourself.”

“Of course, Sansa.” Jon clutched her hand between his own. “You know more than I, here. Of course I trust you, will trust you.” 

He sighed and pulled back from her grip. “You’re the only pack I have now, and I don’t know how to protect you from enemies I don’t understand. It terrifies me, if I’m speaking truthfully.”

Jon spoke more words than she had ever hoped to hear on the subject, and his promises of protection were like those of a hero from a song. Sansa ventured a smile. “Then we’ll have to learn them together.”

They fell quiet after that, and a short time later Sansa took her things and finally settled into her bed.

That night, Sansa dreamt of a terrible darkness that spilled from the towers of Winterfell to block out all the light shining, in candles, torches, hearths, even the sun. But there in the center of the courtyard, brandishing his flaming sword like a hero from Old Nan’s stories, slaying enemies on all sides and fighting back the darkness, stood Jon.

* * *

Nights later, as they neared the ruby ford, Sansa settled into her tent, as she had so many nights on the kingsroad. It was lonelier here than in the keeps and inns where they spent many nights, and often felt darker, too. There, Jeyne and Brienne served as her pillowmates and kept her company, and there was always a fire in the hearth to warm them. The shadows from the campfire without danced along the wall of her tent, and the rush of the river and the rustle of the trees prevented her sleep from coming as quickly as Jayne’s murmurs or Brienne’s tales of legendary knights. 

That night, sleep came even more uneasy than it had before, and when it arrived it was a restless one. She dreamt of Arya and the butcher’s boy crossing swords alongside the Trident, of Nymeria and Lady frolicking along the kings road, and of Joffrey gasping for breath in his mother’s arms. And worse, she dreamt of the ungallant knights of the Kignsgaurd as they ripped her dress, the Imp grasping for her body on their wedding night, and the head of Father as it fell from his body and rotten on a spike.

She started awake, her skin drenched in a cold sweat. Sansa glanced around her tent. In the night, she had tossed her blankets off her bed and they laid in a jumble on the floor. All that remained draped over her was Jon’s grey cloak from the godswood.  While she added decoration to her maiden cloak, she kept this one free from distractions. It was simple, like Jon, and the white wolf made her feel like Ghost was with her. 

A dark figure threw back the flap of her tent and stood hulking in the opening. Sansa pulled the cloak up to cover her heaving chest, covered only in her thin nightgown.

She sighed in relief when she recognized him by the direwolf at his side. “Jon, you frightened me.”

“I frightened _you_?” He grinned awkwardly, white teeth flashing against the darkness of her tent. He hovered uncomfortably in the opening of her tent before stepping in and letting the flap fall shut. “I could hear you tossing from my tent. What troubles you?” 

“I- a bad dream, is all.” She did not want to admit she was scared of ghosts years dead. Jon stepped forward more and motioned to her bed.

“May I?”

She nodded hesitantly. He took her hand in his after seating himself on the edge of her cot. His fingers were warm around hers as he ran his thumb gently over her knuckles. The soothing motion calmed her beating heart. Finally, Jon looked up from their joining in his lap. “This is near where Lady died, isn’t it?”

Sansa nodded again. “This is the furthest South I’ve been since I left the Eyrie. It’s all coming back.”

Jon’s ministrations to her hand stopped. “I’m sorry, Sansa.”

He gently cupped her cheek. His look was intent, as if something sacred passed between them. He looked at the cloak that covered her. “You kept this?”

“Of course.” She traced the white direwolf. “It’s the true cloak of yours, not the black and red you’ll put on my shoulders in the royal sept.” 

Sansa swallowed. “And it smells like home, like the godswood.” _Like you_ , she didn’t say, because it scared her to admit that his scent alone could comfort her.

Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered Lady. Their time together was short, and yet she could still feel the empty presence at her side wherever she went. Ghost nudged her legs with his head, and Sansa ran her fingers through his fur. She leaned into Jon’s touch until her head was on his shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her tight against him. He said nothing as she cried, his hand tracing steady patterns along her back. She breathed deeply, trying to regain her sense and composure. 

As her tears dried, she clutched at the front of his tunic. “Don’t leave.”

“You want me to stay?” Jon’s eyes were bewildered when Sansa murmured her assent. She moved away from the edge of her cot, leaving room for him.

“Please.” 

Jon laid down, startling when Sansa reached for his arm and wrapped it round her body. They would be intimate soon enough, so this did not feel as wrong as it once would have.

Sansa slept sounder with Jon at her side, her fingers tangled with his own. She is sure then that she can come to love him as her husband, and perhaps that she already does. Her dreams were still filled with old visions of the tragedy that happened along these shores, but there were some of home, of Winterfell, that alleviated her pain. 

“Sansa, Jon has gone missing-” Jeyne burst into the tent not long after the sun’s rise. “Oh.” 

Sansa sat up hurridly. Red flowers bloomed on her cheeks as she realized what the pair must look like. At her side, Jon woke slower. Ghost was up, quick as a fox, and Jeyne stepped back. “My lady, I didn’t-” 

“Try to keep this quite if you can, although I doubt the camp won’t notice where he comes from. I’ll send Jon back to his tent.” They had not told anyone of the wedding in the godswood, for fear of offending Daenerys should she hear of it. Of course their party would find their current situation somewhat scandalous.

Sansa shook Jon’s shoulders until he was fully awake. 

“You must go back to your own tent, now.” A flurry of emotion ran over her as she stared at his dark hair, stuck at different angles, and the sleepy way he blinked at  her. She set a quick kiss against his lips. “Thank you, Jon.”

He ran a hand through his hair, settling the mass of curls, before disappearing out the back of her tent. Sansa was glad when he found his way into her tent again that night and the nights after that, although he entered and exited more discretely than on that first day.

* * *

Jon rode sullenly at her side, dressed in all black with his hair tied back with a leather cord. Sansa blushed as realized it was a handsome look for him, and that black was certainly his color. His face was knotted in an uncomfortable grimace and his eyebrows knit together above eyes darkened by black circles beneath them. Neither had slept well the night before with King’s Landing so close, and when Jeyne had come to rouse them it had been too early by far.

Typically, they spoke of home or their family, and sometimes Jon would describe his excitement to see Viserion again. Sansa had seen the hulking beast once, but it was too large and its fires too hot to draw her close. But she listened anyway, because it made Jon happy to speak of the dragon and she would not deny him happiness when he has given her the same consideration.

As they stopped to take a rest, he handed her his flagon of wine. Sansa took a sip, pondering his face and their surroundings.

“I’ll race you to the crest of the next hill.”

“What’s for the winner?”

Sansa pursed her lips. “If you win, I’ll give you my favor for the wedding tourney. If I win, you’ll carry me to our wedding breakfast from our chambers.”

Jon laughed. “It’s an accord.”

She waited until he had capped his flagon before spurring her horse onward. She was not as accomplished of a horsewoman as Arya, but she had learned to hold her own in the saddle. The horse whinnied as they cantered up the path, passing by the rest of the party.

She galloped ahead, Jon chasing at her heels. Sansa laughed, a truly joyous titter. They had this moment of freedom, this moment of peace, and it was theirs alone. Even as Jon neared her, she could not help the exult that threatened to overwhelm her.

The wind caught in her loose hair, blowing leaves against her face. The rush and adrenaline spurred her on even as Jon passed her and her mount. 

He pulled the reins and came to a halt. Sansa slowed down as she approached him, and saw the view that stopped their exultation. King’s Landing spread before them, Drogon sailing high above, ashes still rising from Visenya’s Hill where the old Sept of Baelor once stood, dark and imposing and ready to destroy them if it could. 

“Welcome to the capitol, Jon.” They  had arrived back in the lions’ den, but now it was filled with dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


	4. Dany II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just a dream, Dany. Oh, Dany, it was just a dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My running theory/hope is that Jon’s Targaryen name is Jacaerys- I think it’s cute that the last Jacaerys was called “Jace” which, like Jon, is a shortening of Jonathan in the real world. Plus Jace was (probably) a bastard with dark hair who died at age 15/16. Dany will be using Jacaerys and eventually Jace whenever she refers to Jon. Hopefully it doesn’t get too confusing.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

 

**Dany**

“My queen, a messenger has come from Jon Snow’s party.” Tyrion said, holding out the letter to Dany. She bristled at his words and pursed her lips. “Your nephew has arrived.”

“Jacaerys. He is Prince Jacaerys of House Targaryen.” She rose from her writing desk, setting a careful gaze upon her Hand.

“Prince Jacaerys, of course. Forgive me, Your Grace.” It would take some time for her courtiers to grow accustomed to her nephew’s true name. But if she predeceased him, he would be a Targaryen king someday, and it was time all of Westeros recognized the true name his mother and father had given him. “The messenger was a wildling, a strange fellow to bring this far south, especially to the capitol.”

Dany turned to address Irri, who lounged on one of the pair of divans before her hearth. The handmaid stood at her queen’s attentions. “Have the litters and horses prepared. The whole of my court will likely want to greet them at the dragon gate.” Irri curtsied and turned to go. “Wait- see also that Jacaerys’ man is fed and cared for. He is likely tired from their journey.”

“Very good. Have you any instructions for me, Your Grace?”

“Gather the small council. I will have them all join the retinue, and I would have Lady Margaery and Missandei join me in my litter.” Tyrion nodded and left behind her handmaiden.

Dany took a deep breath. She had not seen Jacaerys in over three years. _How much has he changed?_ She wondered. _Will he still want me as he did in the Night?_

Stepping from her study to her dressing room, Dany called to mind her memory of Jacaerys. His kind, calm grey eyes as they analyzed each option at their war councils; the furrow in his brow when he pondered an advisor’s words; his spinning form across a battlefield crowded with the dead; and the sad, soft smile whenever he met her lingering gaze. 

Soon, she would see that and all the more again. Soon, they could speak. Soon, they could laugh. Soon, Jacaerys would be here.

* * *

Dany anticipated a larger party would accompany her nephew on the kingsroad to herald the arrival of the Crown Prince in the city that might one day be his. She peered at the group from behind the sheer drapes of her litter, taking in the group. This momentous homecoming roused the city to decking itself in splendor and drew out vast oceans of crowds to see Jacaerys and his wife-to-be, who was once before meant to be their princess. Yet only three wagons, twenty household knights, and a handful of Free Folk fighters rode with Jacaerys’ retinue, and the retinue was scant at that: a well-dressed but homely woman in a wagon, the Maid of Tarth, a gruff, red-bearded wildling, and Jacaerys’ steward all rode behind the betrothed pair. 

The lack of a wheelhouse further startled Dany. She narrowed her eyes at the auburn-haired woman besides Jacaerys, who at their only meeting had proven to be a proper lady in all her manners. She would have expected Sansa Stark to choose a more elegant means of travel.

Jacaerys led the party through the dragon gate, the fierce white direwolf ahead of them all. His shoulders were broader still than last she had seen him, but in all else he remained the same: brooding grey stare and dark black clothing, his Valyrian steel sword strapped to his side. 

Dany pushed back the curtain of her litter, taking the offered hand from Garth Hightower, Lord Commander of the Queensguard.  Her advisors and handmaidens, Margaery Tyrell and Missandei, now a woman grown, stepped down behind their queen. Margaery Tyrell’s big brown eyes watched the northern party in awe, a secretive smile on her face. Her advice war paramount to the success of Dany’s reign, and she had been a great support in negotiating this marriage.

Jacaerys dismounted from his horse first of the party, just as handsome and just as graceful as she remembered. His dark hair matched his dark clothes, not quite black and his grey eyes gleamed in the sunlight. His shoulders tensed as he helped Sansa down from her own mount. Jacaerys offered her his arm before they turned to genuflect before their queen.

Dany rushed forward and pulled them both up, but maintained her eyesight on Jacaerys. “Please, rise. There is no need to bow so low, not when we are family, or soon to be.”

She gifted Sansa with a gracious smile, one that was equally met. Sansa curtsied again, though not so deep as before. “Your Grace honors us with your welcome.”

Her small council waited around her litter and offered their welcomes to the betrothed pair as well. Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, looked uncomfortable in the strange contraption he called a saddle. It was to be understood, considering his place as Lady Sansa’s former husband. 

The Master of Ships, Aurane Waters, sat proudly on his horse, waves of silver hair flowing freely behind him. Gunthor Hightower, Master of Coin and Roland Waynwood of the Eyrie, Master of Laws, greeted Lady Sansa with especially flamboyant flourishes upon dismounting from their horses. She smiled courteously but betrayed no true emotions. Her response was equally placid upon being introduced to the Queensguard, who would soon begin rotations outside her door.

Dany enjoyed having handsome men on hand, a category her nephew fit in equally as her white knights. Her Queensguard had been chosen in part because of their appearance, although also for their prowess and loyalty. Her bear had died of greyscale, but even as he suffered he fought for her. Dany rewarded his loyalty by entombing his body in the newly built Crypt of Heroes. All knights of the Queensguard would rest for the rest of time in reverence for their honor and service.

“You must be weary from your travels, Lady Stark.” Dany said, taking Sansa’s hand in her own. She focused her purple stare upon the young woman. She called out, “Lord Tyrion, Lady Margaery- escort my nephew’s betrothed and her ladies to her suite in Maegor’s holdfast.”

A noticeable scowl streaked on the Maid of Tarth’s face. Dany vaguely recalled that the woman was Sansa’s sworn shield, not one of her companions. A larger group would be needed to keep company with Sansa, especially since her only companion now was a nameless widow from the North. All these things could be dealt with in time. For now, Dany only wished to spend a free moment with Jacaerys.

“And I, Your Grace? My people will need me to-”

“Your party will settle fine without you there. They’re in good hands with Lady Margaery to play host.” Her friend and confidant was a darling of the court. She carried the duties normally kept by a queen consort- putting on banquets and tourneys, inviting famed singers and dancing troupes to perform before the guests in the Red Keep. Her advice was paramount  These duties would be expected to fall to Sansa now, but perhaps Margaery could stay on as a lady of the Princess and oversee the duties were properly done.

“ Besides, I assume you’d like to see Viserion? It has been quite some time since last you were united.” Jacaerys’ eyes lit with a joy the rest of his face did not show. “And do call me Dany, Jacaerys. We are family, after all.”

“Yes, Dany.” He smiled, small but noticeable. “It would please me greatly.”

The gathering remounted their horses and the smallfolk cheered as they began to part their ways. Dany set herself back in her litter as Missandei and Margaery left in the spare one. Gazing out,  did not miss the plodding wolf besides Sansa Stark, or how Jacaerys’ stare lingered on Sansa as the majority of the royal retinue rode towards the Red Keep. 

* * *

The dragons were the last remnant of her ancestors rule in Westeros, a fierce reminder of the dynasty that once had been and a hopeful emblem for the one that would grow again. She melted down the terrifying Iron Throne and had one crafted that put her more level with her own people rather than above them. Brandon Stark had brought a longsword to Winterfell, silvered Valyrian steel with  a sleek black grip and red jeweled pommel. But Dark Sister fit perfectly in the hand of his sister Arya, and Dany could not deny the girl the sword she had wielded through the Long Night.

Viserion led the trio of dragons as they slunk forward from the shadows of the Dragonpit, unusual when Drogon ruled them all. He stepped towards Jacaerys, great eyes watching the familiar figure. 

Theirs was a happy reunion, quiet as the remnants of the Targaryen line did not speak. Jacaerys strapped the makeshift saddle upon Viserion’s back, slowly reacquainting himself with the mount he rode when they saved the world. Dany never used a saddle. She had tried, once, during the war, but it was foreign and incredibly difficult to bind against Drogon’s dark scales. She liked to feel their deep connection scale to skin, skin to scale.

She climbed upon the black beast’s back, settling against his spine. Drogon’s scales burnt hot beneath her, burning and making them whole and one. His wings spread wide to catch the winds as he ran directly towards them. 

Her ears were filled with the beating of Drogon’s wings as he rushed head-on into the air. His wings cracked louder than thunder, muscles rippling beneath her. She leaned into his flight as he rose steadily into the sky. They were rising, faster and faster, until they were fully airborne. Nearby, she heard the beat of Viserion’s wings. 

Dany smiled broadly as she felt the world fall away. The sun sparkled around them, glancing off the dragons’ scales and throwing a warmth into her face. All her fears of having her nephew and Sansa Stark in King’s Landing fled away on the winds that pushed against her, as she rose above the city and the clouds. From this high up, she could see all of her kingdom, miles of roads and farmland. 

Below, she heard the cheer of thousands of voices proclaiming her glory. The smallfolk of King’s Landing reveled to see her fly with Drogon like a true Targaryen of old. At least a dozen songs were sung anew each week about the queen and her dragons. With Jacaerys here, flying besides her, it was truly like the olden years. 

Sometimes, she dreamt she was a dragon with a bright green flame alongside the great black beast- not just flying atop Drogon, but alongside him as his full equal. It was a beautiful dream, but one that could never be. The thought struck her with a moment of sadness, until Dany chose to relish in the gladness of flight. She threw her head back and laughed as the winds caught her complex weave of braid.

She whipped Drogon right and he veered that way, nipping at Viserion’s tail. She laughed, clear and bright, and Jacaerys turned back and smiled at her so widely she felt as if she were flying all her own, like the dragon in her dream.

Suddenly, Drogon dove, plummeting down quickly. Jacaerys shouted behind her as Viserion followed. It was a race between their mounts, one she was determined to win. They spun and slithered through the sky, a pair of people enjoying the most joy there was to offer in all these lands, until finally the setting sun called them to land once again. 

Dany waited for Jacaerys to remove the saddle from Viserion’s back. He joined her, still breathless from her flight. “This was a wonderful idea, your- Dany.”

She smiled, and set her hand upon his forearm. “Surely, we can do it again as often as you’d like, now that you’re here.”

“Yes. That, that would be good.” He hung up the saddle on the rack where it belonged. Unlike any other stable, only they could tend to their mounts. Jacaerys sighed. “But for now, I’d like to check in on Sansa. She’s likely in need of something.”

Dany’s heart fell. “Of course. We may return to the Red Keep.”

She returned to her litter as Jacaerys returned to his horse. Dany started within, her Master of Whispers sitting in the spot reserved for her ladies. 

“Varys,” she hissed, lips pursing. She had hoped to open the curtain and wave at her people, converse with Jacaerys, but that would not be as long as he rode within. “What brings you here at this time?”

“I thought you might like to hear the whereabouts of your prestigious guest.” He tittered. 

Dany fixed him with a glare. “Go on.”

“Upon arrival in the Red Keep, Lady Stark immediately found her way to the raverny, and composed letters for her family, forgoing her own quarters.” Varys  said. “And there is another rumor that might interest you as well, my queen.”

She nodded.

“Apparently, your nephew and his bride shared her tent for many a night when they journeyed on the kingsroad, and in that tent a bed.” He emitted a high pitched squeak. “There is no evidence that she is yet with child, but it might be likely.”

The queen sighed. Dany steeled herself from an emotional response. “It’s no matter, the wedding will be shortly. If a child was on its way, there would be no difficulty.”

She was certain Varys knew her true feelings of the matter, that he knew how she felt for Jacaerys. It was no matter now. She was a mother to all the people of Westeros and preserving her legacy and protecting them had to come above all else. 

* * *

Dany woke suddenly, fingers gripping into her silken sheets to stop her dreamt fall. Night sweat dripped from her skin, heavy and hot. Her breath came quick and pounding like Drogon’s batting wings in her dream. A deathly whiteness had reached up to grab her and pull her down, but though she fought the Others still grabbed hold of her.  She had felt herself falling from Drogon’s back, slipping into the snowy nothingness below.

_Just a dream, Dany. Oh, Dany, it was just a dream._

She repeated Jacaerys’ words over and over in her head, trying to calm her breath to their simple tempo. 

_Just a dream, Dany. Oh, Dany, it was just a dream._

There had been a night like this during the Night, when she woke from dreams of swirling green fires eating her and everyone else around. Then, she had found the comfort she longed for in Jacaerys’ arms. 

From their first meeting upon the shores of Narrow Sea, she had been enchanted by him, this strong warrior who could have been hers had the world been kinder to them both. There was a little of her brother in him; he resembled Viserys in the shape his chin and the longness of his hands. She liked to imagine it came from Rhaegar, also. 

They crowded around the fire during the Night, huddling close for warmth with all their fellow fighters. The War of the Dawn was darkness and fire, the back of her dragon and the invisible force of death and cold that they fought. Dany had been a commander until that point, but she quickly learned the modes of survival used by soldiers on campaign.

After she awoke alone in her tent, shuddering from her dream, she had wandered out into the night. Dany had not been thinking, and nearly died in that evening.  He found her nearly frozen through on the very edge of their camp, further even than the dragons. She repeated the words he told her over and over in her head, whenever she needed comfort. 

All his words, from the crooning “Oh, Dany, what are you doing?” as he pooled her into his arms and carried her back to the fire, but mostly the ones that came next as he rocked her and held her through the hours that they caught their rest.

“Just a dream, Dany. Oh, Dany, it was just a dream.” He held her close and lent her his warmth, stroked her hair and did so until the others of their party woke and it came time to move on to their next skirmish with death. He never held her again, but after that she let hope grow where it had laid dormant before. And with that new light within the darkness, a war was won and lives were saved for all.

Typically, a bedmate or another would have stirred besides her as she woke. But this night, she had not taken anyone to bed. It didn’t seem right, to hold another as thoughts of Jacaerys roamed wild in her mind.  But now she wished there was someone else to quench her cravings and bring the fire in the pit of her stomach down from its harsh roar. 

 _His is the song of ice and fire_. His mother was ice, his bride also- too much of the North would cool the Targaryen fire that flamed within him. She could not allow that last ember of her ancestors to go out, and Sansa Stark could force it gone if she tried.

She would place Margaery in Sansa’s retinue as she had earlier considered, Dany resolved, and use her friendship to watch over all that went on in Sansa’s chambers.

It was not much, but the oversight would have to do for now. She set herself again in a restless sleep, dreaming of Jacaerys and a happier tomorrow. 

* * *

They served ten sumptuous courses for the welcome feast the next night, including a replica of the Red Keep built entirely of lemon cakes. Varys had informed Dany that the treats were a favorite of Sansa, and she sought to show the girl some good graces in hopes of attaining her favor without courtly intrigue. With that, she could keep Sansa from politics and let her focus on entertaining the court or some other trivial task. 

The guests were not too prestigious, although Loras Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, had already arrived despite the wedding preparations having not yet begun. A date could not be set until the pair was in the capitol. With their arrival, the wedding could commence within the moon’s turn. The Lords of all of Westeros would now be converging 

Sansa sat at Dany’s right at the high table on the dais, while Jacaerys sat to the queen’s left. Their dinner conversation was lively but lacking substance, mostly recounting details of their travels and tales of Sansa’s siblings and their escapades. Sansa dared to make a comment about the elaborateness of the feast while the Northern folk still suffered, and the tension was still palpable two courses later.

As the musicians began to play their instruments, Jon tilted his head towards the women and away from his conversation with Tyrion. “Would you care for a dance, Lady Stark?”

The queen blinked at her nephew. Similar confusion crossed Sansa’s face before she smiled brightly. All reports showed that he rarely partook in courtly pleasantries such as this. Sansa took the napkin from her lap and set it on the table. “It would please me greatly, my prince.”

Jacaerys pushed back from the table and offered Sansa his arm. The first pair to sweep onto the dance floor, they made a striking contrast in their dark grey and blue clothing beneath the Targaryen banners that clung to every wall. 

Dany set her chin on her fingers and leaned towards her Hand. “We must have a more appropriate wardrobe commissioned for Lady Stark before the wedding.  She should dress the part of her house. Jacaerys wears mostly blacks anyway. Less will be needed for him.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Tyrion nodded, also following the pair as they danced before the court. The gods had not blessed Jacaerys with prowess on the dance floor, but Sansa possessed enough grace and elegance to make up for his lack tenfold. 

“My Lady makes many of her own dresses, if it pleases your Grace.” Sansa’s companion, the widowed Lady Bolton, spoke from the opposite end of the table. She glanced nervously from the floor before them to Dany, eyes not hovering long on any one spot. 

Dany smiled at Lady Bolton, trying to assuage her anxiety. “Thank you for telling me. Perhaps I shall present her cloth as a wedding gift, would she like that, Lady Bolton?”

The lady tensed visibly at her comment. “Call me Jeyne or Lady Poole, if it pleases your Grace.” She swallowed. “But yes, I believe Lady Sansa would appreciate the gift very much, your Grace.”

Dany reached across the table and took Jeyne’s hand in her own. “Of course, Jeyne.”

She had heard of the horrors Jeyne suffered under her lord husband, Ramsay Bolton, and understood her aversion to claiming his title even if being Lady of the Dreadfort was a greater one than the daughter of Winterfell’s deceased steward.  Dany squeezed Jeyne’s hand before releasing it and leaning back in her chair. Silence fell at the center of the high table as the minstrels began another song.

Jacaerys spun Sansa around for a twirl, taking her for another round on the floor. It could only be expected- he was her betrothed, after all, but Dany could not help her suspicion at the way Jacaerys maintained intense eye contact with his bride-to-be. She still hoped for his love in some capacity, which would never arrive if he fell in love with his own wife. It was a sad thought, but Dany still kept it close and tight to her heart.

“Do you dance, Lord Tyrion?” Jeyne asked, finally jolting them from their individual contemplations. Her voice quivered less than when she spoke previously, but she still twisted her fingers in her lap. Despite Jeyne’s own discomfort, Dany had to keep herself from laughing. Tyrion despised formal court functions and she had never even considered the prospect seeing him dance.

Tyrion looked at the young woman. “No, my Lady. Perhaps I could show you the gardens instead?”

She gave a sharp nod, and accepted his offered hand when Tyrion made his way to stand behind her chair. They made a strikingly well-matched pair, with the dark scar tissue that covered both their noses. They disappeared out onto the balcony, leaving Dany alone with her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you liked this! Let me know what you think below! Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


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